Field Note No. 5 - Escorted through Portugal

While traveling through Portugal this past week, I expected to be changed by history — ancient churches, castles, cobblestone streets, the weight of centuries.

Although all those things were impactful, it was a living scene that changed me the most.

My oldest son, my husband, and I flew standby from Salt Lake City to Amsterdam to Lisbon and joined a group exploring Portugal and parts of Spain. Amid museums, orange-tree-lined streets, and long days walking the patterned calçada stone, one relationship kept drawing my attention again and again: a mother and her teenage sons.

They treated her with a tenderness that felt almost reverent.

If she carried a backpack, one of them quietly lifted it from her shoulders and carried it himself. When they walked, she often rested her hand in the crook of a son’s arm, escorted through the city as though she were both precious and entirely at home there. They checked on her. Stayed near her. Made space for her.

And she graciously let them.

At one point we reached a wide puddle blocking the path. She paused at the edge, smiling, and said she would just have one of her boys carry her across. And they did — easily, naturally, without embarrassment.

They were fifteen and sixteen.

What struck me most was not duty, but warmth. They seemed genuinely pleased to care for her. The respect between them was mutual, relaxed, deeply rooted.

I watched this pattern hold steady through the long days — climbing hills, entering churches, wandering shops, sharing meals. It did not feel performative. It felt cultivated.

Finally, one evening at dinner, I asked her what had been quietly forming in my heart:

“What did you do to raise boys who treat you so beautifully?”

She smiled, then turned to her son beside her.

“Let’s ask him.”

Without hesitation he said, “It was all my dad. My dad taught us how to treat Mom.”

She nodded.

“My children know I am the most important person in my husband’s life. They know that if he isn’t there, they should treat me the way he would. He showed them. And I show them a lot of gratitude in return.”

Such a simple explanation. Such a powerful one.

Many women quietly long for that kind of partnership — a husband whose love for his wife becomes the template for the children. I felt both admiration and a tender ache.

And a question followed me for the rest of the trip:

What if that example is not present? It doesn't feel right to put all the blame on the husband. Is there still a way for a mother to cultivate this kind of tenderness between her and her sons?

A Small Experiment

One day, when this mother was not being escorted, I decided to try something.

I slipped my hand onto my husband's arm as though he were escorting me.

We don’t normally walk that way, and he immediately noticed.

“Are you okay? Is something wrong?” he asked.

Nothing was wrong. But something had shifted.

"I just want to be close to you." I said.

There was no space between us, closer than holding hands. I could feel his strength, his steadiness. I felt sheltered, grounded — aware of him in a way that ordinary walking does not require.

The posture itself seemed to communicate something without words: trust, closeness, belonging.

Trying It With My Son

Later, I approached my 12 year old son while he walked alone for a moment and placed my hand on his arm.

Instinctively, he bent it into the escort position.

“I just want to walk with you,” I told him.

He stood a little taller. Not embarrassed. Not resistant. Simply present.

We walked arm in arm for a few minutes, and it felt purposeful — as though we had stepped into relationship instead of merely sharing space.

Noticing What It Awakens

This small gesture stirred many thoughts.

Does escorting awaken something ancient in men — a protector, a guide, a quiet sense of responsibility? Does it allow women to feel safely feminine, sheltered without being diminished?

With my husband, it felt deeply intimate — more connected than holding hands. With my son, it felt respectful, grounding, almost ceremonial.

Something within both relationships seemed invited forward.

Bringing It Home

After returning home, I asked my two oldest boys to escort me as we walked to the temple doors. They seemed slightly shy, but willing. Again, I sensed a shift — as though something honorable inside them had been acknowledged.

Later, while standing outside with my husband, I slipped my hand onto his arm again. Instantly I felt softer, calmer, more affectionate. Whether it changed him or not, it changed me.

It made me feel like a lady — not fragile, but cherished.

Perhaps there is wisdom in old customs we have quietly abandoned.

A Thought to Keep

I don’t know whether one small action can shape a relationship. But I wonder.

Could simple physical gestures communicate trust more deeply than words?

Could they help boys practice honor naturally?

Could they remind husbands they are valued for more than provision?

Could they soften mothers, too?

Often the romance of motherhood is not found in grand moments, but in quiet invitations — offered through touch, posture, attention, and presence.

An arm extended.

A hand resting there.

A walk taken together.

I plan to keep noticing.